


Living Gold

by BrokenKestral



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Bandits & Outlaws, Fear, Gen, gold - Freeform, greed - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29228646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenKestral/pseuds/BrokenKestral
Summary: Written for the Adventures in Narnia challenge, with the prompt, "Living Gold."
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for intended violence, though not fully carried out. 

Some looked at the curved and glinting beak and called it cruel. Abdul knew better. He watched the others bow in fear, staying well out of reach of the statue’s four golden arms. Abdul would have touched them if he could, reverence warring with greed. He knew the value of gold. 

And Tash was the master of gold. Was not his image made of gold? His temple filled with it? His priests wore golden chains and his servants golden collars, but none of that compared to the statue made of gold. 

Gold gave power to gods, and to men. Gold saved Abdul as a slave, when he took it from his master’s body; gold gave him power, prestige, and something to worship. Every week he brought another coin of gold to Tash’s temple; every week he made ten coins more. He left the coin before the glinting beak, and Tash drove more people to the road near his cave. He sold their clothes, their weapons, their horses, and their jewellery, and for it, he got gold.

Gold bought him the protection of Tash, the blindness of the Tarkhaan, and slaves who warned him of soldiers. Gold bought him luxury, company, food, and all his heart desired. And what his heart desired most was more gold. 

He knew why the statue of Tash was made of gold. Gold could be cruel, but so could anything that could be worshiped. Gold was a power to be molded, an unchanging value in any place, a constant in every nation. And so Abdul piled it up in the back of his cave, collapsing the entrance and digging a hidden tunnel. He went there every night, and he worshipped again, running his fingers along the ridged round edge of each coin as he counted them, stacking them in pyramids and counting the pyramids. He wondered gladly if he would have to expand the cave. 

He could never have enough gold. He hated the Tarkaans riding by with soldiers, gold around their fingers reflecting the sun—just out of reach! 

So when the lone soldier came riding down the path, a gold ring on one finger and something gold glinting from his saddlebag, Abdul smiled, lips curving up in his dark face. He grabbed the end of the rope, ready to pull it up the instant the horse walked over it, sending its rider crashing onto the rocks on either side. He glanced back at the rider, measuring distance, and paused. 

His skin was white. The fool barbarian! The Tarkhaan must not have warned him to take soldiers. Barbarians were easily fooled in their overconfidence. If he were a member of Tisroc’s court, caring more for prestige than the true power of gold, he would probably know a poet who said such a thing. 

There, he entered the narrow part of the path. Abdul tensed. He had to time it right. The barbarian had a sword; if he kept his seat, if the horse did not rear enough, Abdul might have to offer all his gold to keep his life. Another step, another, and another, and Abdul snapped the rope up in between the two front hooves. It reared, nearly falling backwards, and the pale-faced soldier fell right onto the stones, his head hitting with a  _ thunk _ . Abdul smiled again. He rose, stepping over the stones he hid behind, kneeling by his next source of income.

The man was young, hardly more than a boy. And dark haired, odd in a barbarian. Abdul felt oddly disappointed, for he heard that barbarians had hair the color of gold. It was said the youngest barbarian Queen had a rope of it, falling nearly to her feet. But this barbarian was dark. Well muscled and thin, with a bleeding head that made his hair still darker.

_ Ah, well, he will be dead soon enough, and the color his hair will not matter _ . He caught the reins of the horse—well trained, apparently, for it stood quite still. Leading it to his cave, he put it inside, and went back for the warrior.  _ Still alive _ , he realised as he put his arms under the muscled shoulders and the warrior moaned.  _ But not coming round.  _

He dragged the warrior across the stones and into his cave, dropping him inside. Stooping, he stripped the golden ring—an odd circlet shaped like leaves, with a lion’s head on the front—off of the long, ink-stained fingers ( _ odd in a warrior, a Tarkhaan would rather be caught unoiled than writing his own letters _ ), and opened the bag where he’d caught the glint of gold. 

A circlet. Abdul drew it out with a frown. It was thin, without much gold in it, but an odd thing for a messenger to have. He started at it, his stomach beginning to twist as he realised.

The younger Narnian King was said to travel as a messenger, to spy out the enemies of the country.* And if the Tarkhaan wished him ill—as most followers of Tash did—had he just nearly killed a King?

The vengeance of Narnia would be terrible. It was said the Four loved each other with a love surpassing reason; if they found out—

Abdul abruptly drew his knife with shaking hands.  _ They must not find out. I will cut his throat and bury him; I will move my gold and go somewhere else. My gold will keep me safe. I can buy any man, any woman, find safety. But they must not find out what I have done! _

He made his way over to the barbarian, standing over him and glaring down. It was all the barbarian’s fault! If he had not worn the ring—if he had not had the circlet in his saddlebag—if he had gone a different way!

Abdul knelt, putting his knife to the white skin. The knife wavered, cutting a shallow line, and Abdul swallowed. There was something fearful about killing a King. 

The gold. If he did not kill the King he would lose his gold. He gripped the knife more firmly and prepared to cut.

A  _ roar _ echoed in the cave. Abdul whirled, knife raised, only to see a great, glorious, golden Animal looming above him. He froze. The light—the cave—the air was lit with a golden light, emanating from the Animal itself. Its  _ mane _ —had Abdul’s eyes not been caught, its mane would have sickened his heart with longing. It glowed like living gold. But the eyes were what caught the thief. Before them he fell prostrate. Golden eyes, gold surrounding black, and Abdul could not look at them. He could not forget them. They were  _ gold _ . They held all the power the metal never could, the power to undo the hearts of men. The metal was dead, enthralling men to death. The golden eyes commanded, stripped all defenses,  _ lived _ . 

Abdul quaked before them. All the power gold had given him was nothing. His cave of coins was nothing. This golden Animal was everything.

It stalked past him as he lay shaking on the ground. It did not even glance his way; It knew him for nothing. But It bent over the King, and a whisper too indistinct for Abdul to understand whispered through the air. Then the Lion and the King were gone.

Abdul got up, shaking. Beside him were huge paw prints, digging deep into the ground. He stared at them, speechless, then fled. Past the luxuries, past the stored food, the treasures, and into his tunnel. He pulled himself through with grasping, desperate hands, and fell into his golden hoard. He grabbed the first gold he saw, clutching it to his chest, examining it.

Dead. Worthless. The eyes, the eyes, everything he hated, everything he wanted, and never, ever what he could possess. The eyes possessed what it looked on; the looked-on possessed nothing. 

And sitting in the dead gold, Abdul wept, for the living gold had taken the last of the dead gold’s charm. 


	2. Betrayed for Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trustingHim17 hinted that I should write a sequel, a furthering of the bandit’s story. Later AslansDaughter asked for a second chapter where the story is told from Edmund’s perspective. I tried my best to incorporate both. 

_“_ _[Aslan’s eyes] held all the power the metal never could, the power to undo the hearts of men.”_

_“The eyes, the eyes, everything he hated, everything he wanted, and never, ever what he could possess. The eyes possessed what it looked on; the looked-on possessed nothing.”_

Edmund stirred. The world felt warm, soft, and _good_. As if to breathe was to be content. Which was quite odd, considering the last thing Edmund remembered, he had been in Calormen.

_Hadn’t he?_

Yes—he burrowed his face further into the soft surface. Yes, he’d been riding down a path. He’d come to the outskirts of Calormen to discuss fishing rights and piracy defenses with the army there, and unfortunately the Tisroc (may he be too fat to move from his sofa to his throne) had heard he’d arrived _before_ Edmund left, and Edmund’s short trip became a Visit of State, where Edmund was required to go to Tashbaan. 

He’d gone by way of the Tarkhaan Ibdal first, and Edmund hadn’t liked him. He presented compliments as if oiling a skin for a sale, and told truths with a sneering smile, as if glad they were unhappy. Edmund had been glad to get away, riding fast down the path the Tarkhaan had indicated led to Tashbaan. Then… 

His horse had reared. Which it shouldn’t have, it was trained by Centaurs, and they knew what they were doing. Edmund remembered falling. The sky had been so blue and hot above him. Then there’s been a sharp pain in his head. He reached his hand up gingerly to touch it, keeping his eyes closed. Maybe he dreamed the whole thing, and there’d be nothing more.

The surface under him _moved_ , rising and falling as a sigh filled his ears, and Edmund yelped, jerking away and snapping his eyes open.

He looked right into the golden eyes of Aslan. 

All fear vanished, and Edmund breathed out his own sigh. “Aslan,” he said softly, bowing his head. The side of it ached.

“Welcome, one of my Kings of Narnia.”

Edmund took a moment, looking around. They were in someplace dark, where the only light came from Aslan, and the floor felt like stone. He touched the side of his neck, feeling a cut there, as if a knife had been held to it. “Where are we?”

“Not far from where you were attacked. But I brought you here for a reason.” Edmund straightened, eyes back on the Lion. He was Aslan’s, before all else, and was ready to do the Lion’s will. “Not far from here, in the bushes beside a large stone, you will find the entrance to a tunnel. Go through it, and at the other end is a man weeping for all he has lost. You are to help the man.”

“What does he need, Aslan?”

“That you are to find out as he speaks. But do so with a hand on your sword, Edmund. I do not mean you to use it, but you will need to inspire fear as much as trust. For this man is the bandit that attacked you.”

Edmund blinked. “And I’m to help him anyway, Aslan?”

“Yes.” Edmund began, slowly, to get to his feet, but stopped as the Lion rumbled. “Ask your question, Son of Adam.”

“Aslan, he attacked me with no warning, and if I am right, held a knife to my neck. Still I must help him?”

“He held a knife to your neck with the intent to take your life. And still you must forgive him.”

“That isn’t easy, Aslan.”

“I do not say it will be easy; I say it must be done. For you yourself have been forgiven much, Edmund, and now you are called to forgive others much. Know that the man was a villain, and do not underestimate him. But know, too, Edmund, that he has lost everything he thought of worth. Every dream, and every certainty. He is blind, and will need someone to guide him, and to help him see.”*

“As you command.” Edmund got all the way to his feet, sure of himself this time. He turned to bow to the Lion once more and found Him gone. 

Edmund reached down, loosening his sword, and walked towards the faint light he could now see, since Aslan’s golden light no longer lit the cave. He ducked outside a small entrance, and found himself standing a short distance from the track he had been riding. 

“I hope my horse is still around somewhere,” Edmund thought out loud. “It’ll be a long, hot walk to Tashbaan without it. Still,” he added, picking his way around the small hill he’d emerged from, looking for a boulder by some bushes, “I’d get to accuse the Tisroc of an unsafe kingdom, and after the stuff his son pulled, accusing us of an unsafe harbor because he weighed the ship down with far too much cargo, that’d be a pleasure.” He saw a boulder up ahead and made his way around it. The bushes were directly on the other side, and Edmund began pulling at them, careful to grasp the stronger branches. They pulled away quite easily, revealing a tunnel about half his height. 

“I don’t like tunnels,” Edmund grumbled. He had to admit, a part of his talking out loud was nerves. He didn’t particularly like the idea of crawling down a small tunnel to find a man driven to near-insanity on the other side—a man who had tried to kill him already—but Aslan’s commands weren’t guaranteed to be any safer than the Lion Himself was. Edmund was to obey, as best he could, and leave the results—including his life or death—to Aslan. 

He was only a few meters inside the tunnel when he heard the weeping. The sound—

The cries, the gasping breaths, Edmund knew them. They were the sounds that came from the body when the heart had been partially destroyed. He began to crawl faster.

He emerged into a cave, one with three torches stuck in the walls, and piles on piles of gold, gleaming. Some golden coins were stacked in towers as high as his waist; there were three heaps of them, spilling over the floor. There was darkness, torchlight, and gold, and nothing else.

It reminded Edmund of a dragon hoard, and he shuddered. Then he looked about for the source of the crying. He saw the man just as the man raised an arm, striking down one of the golden towers, his sobs growing louder. 

“Dead!” the man cried. “You are dead, dead, dead!

Edmund, mindful of Aslan’s warning, unsheathed his sword. He carried it pointed down, hoping to appear less threatening, but armed, and walked forward. The man saw him, and broke into a wild laugh.

“You are here for the gold?” he cried, eyes red and water all over his cheeks. “It is worthless! Worthless! It is dead! It does no good! It—”

He stopped, and Edmund tightened his grip on the sword, raising the point a little. 

“You are the barbarian King,” the man said slowly.

“I am.” Edmund waited, but the man said nothing more. “Who are you?”

“I held a knife to your throat,” the man said, parsing each word as he once would have given away gold. “And then the living Gold, the God, came.” He lunged forward, and Edmund backed up hastily, sword still down—Aslan said not to use it on the madman—but the man only caught his tunic in both hands, dragging on it. “Take me to him! Take me to the living golden God! I have to see those eyes again! I have to know—are they more than memory? Are they true?”

“The Lion does not come at our commands, and I cannot take you to Him unless He decides to come,” Edmund said sternly. He pried the man’s fingers off his tunic and stepped back, keeping his eyes on the madman’s eyes. He saw them begin to fill with water again. “They are true,” the King reassured. “They are no dream, no wish. And they are _alive_ ,” Edmund finished, wonder filling his own tone as he remembered that once, they hadn’t been. That the Lion had let them close in death—for Edmund. 

“Will I see them again?” the man asked, wistfully. 

“I believe that all will see the Lion, after they die. Whether He welcomes them, or they dread Him—that I cannot always judge.”

The man paused. He sat back on the floor, looking at the torch in front of him. “Would He welcome me?” he asked quietly. “I have—I tried to kill His king.” He glanced uneasily at Edmund, but Edmund merely nodded. “I have killed others. I have taken their possessions, and worshiped another god. I—I am the enemy of all He is.”

“Even His enemies may come to Him,” Edmund reassured quietly. “I was His enemy once.”

“You are sure?” the man asked, scrubbing his cheeks. Edmund stepped forward, offering his hand. With a wondering look the man took it. 

“I, Edmund, King of Narnia, do proclaim forgiveness, for the harm you have done to me. And to those who come to Him, the Lion forgives just as I have done. I know, for I forgive because I myself have been forgiven.”

Tears came again to the man’s eyes, but he held Edmund’s hand firmly, and nodded. 

“You are forgiven,” Edmund said again.

“Thank you.” He scrubbed his hand over his eyes once more. “I’ll change,” he said suddenly, glancing down at the gold. “I’ll give back what I can, five times over, and everywhere I go, I’ll tell people of the Lion. I swear, on the forgiveness I received, that I will do so.”

“Will you come to Narnia?” Edmund asked, a bit hesitantly. He wasn’t quite sure how the man would make reparations if he was in Narnia, but it was Narnia where he would learn to know the Lion best, through the ones who worshipped Him.

But the man shook his head. “It’s not Narnia that needs to hear,” he said quietly. “Narnia needs you, and you’re loved there. I’ve got your horse in the cave--and you can take whatever you need, to get you there safe, and I’ll tell you the safe roads. But I need to tell the people here.”

“Have a care,” Edmund warned, but there was respect in his tone. “The priests of Tash, and the Tarkhaans, will not be pleased.”

The man smiled. “I feared them little, when I worshipped gold. Why should I fear them now, when I’ve seen the truest gold? Come, let’s get you to your horse. And I’ve water, for the cut in your neck,” he added awkwardly. Edmund laughed. 

“Thank you,” he said calmly. “Let me tell you as much as I can about the Lion, before I’m on my way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I’m always a bit nervous writing Aslan, so if you ever read something you feel doesn’t belong to Him, please let me know. 
> 
> A/N: I did use Paul’s conversion as the inspiration for this, though I’m not sure how well that carried over.

**Author's Note:**

> *Not my usual headcanon, but I'm adopting it for this story. :)


End file.
